


How To Terrify Your Demon

by alltoseek



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Community: spook_me, Friendship, Gen, Horror, Mission Fic, Philosophy, The Arrangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7768948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This has got to be one of Crowley's easiest missions ever. Schlep a set of ninnies to a nunnery - how bad could it be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Terrify Your Demon

There were days Crowley bles– curs– felt _smug_ , congratulating himself on the genius of the Arrangement. It meant, among other things, that he could contrive never to have to visit the Convent of St Sava again.

The mission had seemed beni– easy enough. “Escort these here young ladies to that there convent. See that they make it.”

Young ladies being sent to a convent typically meant that they had something of a wandering nature – the nature of their wanderings taking them places where they oughtn’t to be, so it wasn't that unusual for their escort to a nunnery to be put to some effort to keep their wandering on track.

Why Down Below should want to ensure that several young women were safely delivered to a place affiliated with the Other Side made less sense.

“Must be some last holdout of a coven of witches,” Crowley mused. Down Below had agents infiltrating the other side everywhere, of course. In some supposedly pious asylums the number of ‘agents’ far outnumbered the ostensible members.

“Mmm,” hummed Aziraphale absently, savouring his Malvazija Istarska. His own task involved writings recently discovered upon the death of an eminent scholar. He was quite looking forward to it. “I wish you the best in your travels, my dear. Shall we meet up again somewhat east of here? Moldova or thereabouts, perhaps? I have heard glowing reports of the red wines of the region.”

“Certainly, angel; that would be most convenient for me, thank you.”

  


~o~

  


“D'you want me to seduce them?” asked Crowley.

Hastur squinted at him. Crowley was as perverted as they all said. Who wanted to _touch_ a human, really? “You can if you want, I s’pose. It's not in the orders one way or t’other. Whatever it takes to get the manky bints t’ th’ place, is all we care.”

“Not a problem then.” Crowley waved it off carelessly. That would be easier than actually seducing them. Make himself as romantic and alluring as possible, without any physical contact, that was a piece of cake. That would keep their eyes (and feet) headed his way right up until the door.

  


~o~

  


OK, so the inmates of the convent were not witches. Witches were pleasant people. Well, once you got to know them. And if you didn't harass them. Crowley didn't harass anyone if he could help it. Unless it made for a bit of fun. 

The point is, Crowley _liked_ witches.

Even after just one look he knew he wasn't going to like the [prioress](http://i.imgur.com/XKnYvVE.png) of St Sava. And he didn't plan to get to know her _at all_. If he never came near this place again he'd burn Down Below eternally a happy demon. 

The prioress wasn’t anything like a witch. She wasn't anything like _human_. The prioress looked like she ate witches for brekkie.

Literally.

  


~o~

  


For her part, the prioress was thoroughly pleased to meet Crowley and welcome her new charges. Repressing one last shudder the demon left her to it and turned to leave.

_Don't look up don't look up don't look up_ Crowley told himself as he walked down the long cold entrance hall, skin crawling. He looked [up](http://i.imgur.com/la3u3jh.png).

He really should learn to listen to himself some day.

  


  


~o~o~o~

  


  


Perhaps it was one of those cosmic jokes the Big Guy seemed to enjoy playing on His creations, jokes He could share only with Himself. Or perhaps angels were made of sterner stuff. The weak Fell, the strong stood firm. Even when faced with evil so entrenched, so ineradicable...

Crowley assumed he was supposed to rejoice in the awareness of such vileness, its endurance, the feeding of it... he couldn't. But then he hadn't properly Fallen, had he? Just gone for a bit of a stroll. Sauntered. Vaguely. In a somewhat downwards direction – though he could hardly have gone upwards from where he started, could he? He had just been curious, to learn firsthand what else was out there in Creation. 

Bless that curiosity1 (it hadn't been a blessing). He really shouldn't have looked up, either.

  


  


\-----

1 Probably a good thing he’s a serpent, and not a cat.

  


~o~o~o~

  


  


Crowley wished he could put even more space between himself and St Sava, but he had agreed to meet the angel here. It wasn’t so much keeping a promise that kept him in the area (breaking promises for selfish reasons was practically mandatory, for demons), but a yearning for sympathetic company. Aziraphale was very likely the only being in existence that would even listen to him on this subject, let alone understand.

At least the slight breeze coming off the Black Sea in this flourishing little port town was delightfully refreshing. 

Crowley was grateful their rendezvous this time did not involve food. He doubted he could stomach anything. Bad enough Aziraphale was waxing enthusiastic about a local wine he'd found.

“Crowley, my dear, you simply must try this Băbească neagră. Though it is a red, it is not too sweet. Surprisingly light-bodied, for such a deep ruby colour. A lovely rich flavour, like sour cherries, with a hint of something I can't easily identify...”

“No, thank you, angel.” Crowley turned away, glad his complexion in this body was naturally pale. He ought to be able to simply miracle away the nausea, but it kept recurring, regardless.

“My dear boy,” said Aziraphale, calming Crowley's twitching hand with his own, “do not give another thought to the denizens at St Sava. I am certain I can carry out any future errands you may have concerning it. In exchange for your assistance with my own duties elsewhere, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Crowley abstractly. “But listen, angel,” he said a moment later, interrupting Aziraphale's rambling discourse on the glories to be found in the grapes of the region, neglected though they might be by the rest of Europe, “how can you – how can you bring yourself to do it? I know the whole purpose of the Arrangement is that our sides will balance out, everything still gets done, just more efficiently, yada yada – I don't mind holding up my side, no matter how distasteful –”  
(And really, chaperoning a young novice through a month-long travail of temptations had not only been intensely tedious, but a true wrench in Crowley's core; he'd almost been able to feel purification creeping at the edges of his being.)  
“-but there is something so fundamentally – so – it’s as if the prioress and that… that thing up in the roof are somehow altogether different. I don’t think they even belong to our side and they couldn’t possibly be yours. Those abominations are too macabre. I enjoy seeing innocence defiled as much as the next demon, but that is... excessive. To say the least.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, patting the hand he held, “you see, my dear, those poor young things might be considered martyrs.” At Crowley’s sceptical look he continued quickly, “They went to the convent as an act of devotion.” Crowley’s scepticism deepened. “They hardly suffer, you know – perhaps briefly.” 

Everything’s brief, for humans; that’s not the _point_. Crowley didn’t voice this opinion but it must have shown on his face.

“As for the prioress and the other, um, being…” Aziraphale paused, took another mouthful of the wine and looked thoughtful. Crowley wondered if the little amused smile was due to his relishing the wine or considering the ghastly prioress. “… although they may indeed be somewhat outside our own extended family, as long as they are safely isolated in that desolate fastness, we can suffer the sacrifice of those few sent to them and hope that the light may dawn on them one day. Perhaps in the form of a hero; one then elevated to a saint. We cannot tell what is in the Great Plan, my dear boy; it is ineffable.”

“Ineffable,” said Crowley. “That’s one word for it.”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale smiled, encouragingly, a little distantly. Likely still contemplating the wine, and how well it might travel.

_“Hookay, angel,”_ thought Crowley, _“whatever helps you sleep at night.”_

“Hmm, yes, I shall see about ordering several more cases to be shipped. I am so glad we will be proceeding by sea rather than overland, though it is so much farther, and perhaps a bit cramped. Wine is certain to travel much better by sea...” Aziraphale rambled on about travel and shipping arrangements. Fortunately, Crowley did not even have to pretend to listen.

  


~o~

  


The last of evening’s light struck the harbour water and reflected onto the beams atop Crowley’s tiny cabin, creating odd slithery shapes and shadows, which comforted and amused the old serpent. Rocking gently in his hammock, Crowley was sliding into sleep until a draught of night-cooled and sea-dampened air pierced his bedclothes, stabbing an ache into the flesh of his mortal form. He shuddered involuntarily, eyes flying wide. Shocked awake he glimpsed an image in the wavering shadows that he’d wished he could forget forever2. Now how was he to sleep that night? He must ask the angel how he did so... 

Then he remembered that the angel didn't sleep at night, or ever, and wondered if that could be why.

  


\-----

2 He _really_ shouldn't have looked up.


End file.
